


Undefeated Gaul

by betterrecieved



Category: Spartacus: War of the Damned
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-10 12:31:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/786082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betterrecieved/pseuds/betterrecieved
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-slash.  From prompt by anon: What if Agron and Naevia had died in 3.08?  Warnings for self-harm.  Mention of unrequited Nasir/Castus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Undefeated Gaul

Crixus has set his mind to it, and cannot be dissuaded: He will stand upon own two feet as free man before he plants sword in his own heart and waters sweet fertile earth of Gaul with his blood.

(“I must live, as Agron wished me to,” Nasir says flatly, while Spartacus hesitates, wrestling with problem of what to do with Crixus.

Nasir has only days ago been pried, screaming, from ruin of Agron’s corpse. “I will care for him until he can walk again, so that he may die with honor.”

Spartacus embraces Agron’s boy. Nasir will not let him go when he tries to separate.  “You have been invaluable asset in war,” Spartacus says. “You must live not only for Agron but for yourself.”

Spartacus turns to Crixus, but Crixus cannot stand to be touched anymore. Spartacus says,”Once your mind is set on a thing…Yet I would have you live, Crixus.”

“I have been blessed with two chances at life and now there is nothing left for me but to go home.” But at last moment he gingerly places bandaged hand upon Spartacus’ arm. “It is enough that we are free now.”)

Nasir is quiet, skilled caretaker who never bothers Crixus. 

His eyes are sunken within pale face as he gently sponge-bathes Crixus, who endures it, knowing that Nasir’s intentions are good ones. 

Nasir silently cries while he is doing chores, fat tears rolling down his cheeks to fall audibly to floor.

Crixus has more than once caught Nasir staring at him with expression of undisguised pity and grief which Crixus cannot bear.

They have been in house within countryside for weeks when one day Nasir comes to stand by little sofa where Crixus spends most of his time. 

Crixus ignores him. He is thinking:

Even as her head arced through stiff air filled with scent of war-terror (blood and sweat and evacuated Roman bowels, and Crixus smells it still sometimes, his ruined hands grasp in vain for sword hilt) Naevia never looked away.

Eyes wide open, gaze only for Crixus.

Every day Crixus relives this, and more of Naevia: Naevia’s kills in battle, Naevia’s laughter, Naevia’s flashing eyes, Naevia’s cunt which fits him like second skin.

His thoughts of her are prayers to forgotten gods, and perhaps if he thinks her name just one more time, she will come back to him:  Naevia.  Naevia. Naevia.

Nasir interrupts his thoughts. “Crixus,” he says. “Do you not ask yourself: ‘Where is Naevia?’”

Crixus startles, looking up at Nasir.

Crixus is awakened from rare snatches of sleep by Nasir calling for Agron, wailing his name until his voice is only faint croak that carries thinly on night air.

But Nasir has not made conversation since they came here.  Instead he softly narrates his actions as he redresses Crixus’ stubborn foot wounds and helps Crixus exercise his weakened hands.

“Agron does not come to me in sleep, nor do I hear his voice call to me in waking moments.  He has forgotten me.  No, that is unforgivable thought.  He has looked down upon me from afterlife and found me faithless and lacking.  I have tried, Agron, I have tried to be good man.  I did not love Castus!  My heart beats only for _Agron_!” 

Nasir breaks down in dry, heaving sobs.

Crixus has not heart to speak of this to Nasir. He has not much heart for anything now, but especially not for crying boy.

Yet this is boy who saved Naevia from mines at risk of his own skin, who returned Crixus’ life to him. 

Nasir sits down by Crixus’ feet on sofa.  Look on Nasir’s face is expectant and open.  His eyes are feverish, his body much too thin.

Crixus, who has been eating well on stolen Roman money left by Spartacus, realizes that he has never once seen Nasir eat since they arrived here.

There is nothing Crixus can say; there is sliver of pity in him, but he cannot find heart to express it.

“Do you believe you will be reunited?” Nasir prompts. “I have heard you call for her at night.  My belief in afterlife was comfort in time of war, until I knew he was truly gone from me.  Now my faith flags.  Do you too lose belief?”

Crixus shudders. “I have never truly had it.”

*

Nasir takes his meals with Crixus now and though he eats delicately, he does eat, and begins to gain back small amount of weight. 

Nasir speaks lovingly of Naevia as he goes about his small duties in dull house. 

I wonder where she was born? 

She was no older than I am.  

Nasir is full grown man whose youth shows through in small unconscious gestures which Crixus would not call attention to and ruin; it reminds him of Naevia.

In fact, Nasir is much like Naevia, Crixus finds.  Wounded but stoic, proud and at same time quick to smile at any sign of Crixus’ affection.

And Crixus cannot lie to himself, he has more than sliver of affection for boy with big expressive eyes who fixes gaze on Crixus until Crixus begins to speak of Naevia, of his country, of  family killed before him, of becoming Champion of Capua, which he cannot mention without giving due to Gannicus.  He speaks fondly of Spartacus, of rebellion and of war.

Tell me of Agron.

Every day Crixus must recall something of stupid fuck, dressing loathing in cloak of pity for Nasir, who devours his every word. 

*

“I will bring in flowers,” sighs Nasir one day, looking around him as Crixus attempts to flex his lame feet.  “It is so fucking ugly here.”

(On subject of damage to Crixus’ feet, Nasir has been suspiciously silent.

Crixus finds that by exercising his hands constantly by squeezing and flexing them, he regains some measure of dexterity - though no more than a toddling child’s.

His feet, however, do not seem to improve. Last time Crixus asks, weeks ago, Nasir only says, ”They are healing.”

“But will I walk again?” Crixus demands.  He cannot stand even with aid of walking stick; pain courses screaming up his legs until he must sit quickly or vomit.

“They are _healing_.” Nasir replies firmly, but Crixus senses uncharacteristic evasiveness in him.  Then Crixus becomes insistent, then demanding, then enraged.

Nasir’s eyes turn harder and flintier until he throws medicus bag at Crixus’ face and leaves house for hours.

When he returns Crixus is ready to strangle him, until Nasir pulls down hood of his cloak to reveal that pretty hair has been raggedly hacked from his head.

“Agron would not like other men admiring my hair,” Nasir tells him with glassy eyes.  His scalp is bleeding.

And Crixus thinks: ‘He is going to kill himself soon to be with Agron and leave me here alone.’)

Now that Nasir mentions plainness of dwelling, Crixus looks disinterestedly at cheerless room.  He shrugs. “It makes no difference to me, I have no plans to move here permanently.”

Crixus watches Nasir silently cover himself with his long cloak and slip from house. 

Hours pass. Crixus fidgets on sofa, thinking - No, Nasir would not really kill himself, promise to Agron weighs on him like curse. 

But perhaps…Slave-traders might be anywhere, and though Nasir’s brand does not show, brand is not required - anyone can see at first glance that Nasir is foreigner.

Nasir reappears not with bouquet but with blood blooming across front of his cloak near his heart. “Do not look worried, Crixus. Wound is not deep.  I will heal.  And Agron will forgive me.”

In quiet isolated country such as this, Nasir’s only predator is apparently himself. 

Agron, lumbering thoughtless idiot East of Rhine even in death, has extracted terrible promise from Nasir.

“Show me wound,” says Crixus.

Nasir comes to side of sofa, shrugging his cloak to floor.  Underneath it Nasir is naked.

“Wound, as you say, is not very deep,” Crixus says evenly, ignoring Nasir’s soft cock at eye level.  “Bring your healing supplies here and I will aid you in cleaning and bandaging it.”

Nasir gives him measuring look before walking away. 

Crixus hears him opening drawers and cabinets, walking through hallway to his bedroom which is just off from kitchen. 

Nasir is gone for so long that Crixus begins to fall asleep before he jerks awake with sick feeling in guts.  Crixus calls after Nasir many times, but there is no answer.  Crixus is hungry, he is tired, he is worried that Nasir has gone and done some other terrible thing to himself.

Crixus takes up useless walking stick which leans against sofa and levers himself up.  Pain is unbearable until he hears crashing noise from kitchen. 

Then Crixus tells himself he can bear it as he places feet upon floor.

Crixus is soaked in sweat when he finally hobbles into kitchen.

Nasir stands before him with stunned expression, dressed in breeches, wound already bandaged.  Cooking pots lie scattered on floor.

“What has happened here?”  Crixus demands.  “Why did you not answer when I called your name?”

“Wound prevented me from reaching hook on wall so pots fell.  I see you can walk now,” Nasir adds, with bitter little laugh Crixus would like to slap from his mouth. “Farewell.”

Crixus gets in Nasir’s face.  He has lost muscle these past months but he is still man whom other men would back down from.  But Nasir does not shrink from him, not one inch. “Why did you not fucking answer?”

“I will have your things packed for you by morning. Unless you wish to depart so late?”

Crixus’ hands fly up, and Nasir closes his eyes as if expecting blow, as if needing blow.

Crixus takes Nasir by his shoulders, shaking him briefly but hard with his clumsy new hands.  “When I return to homeland you are coming with me.”

Nasir blinks, his eyes going huge.  “Crixus. I did not respond because I wished to hear someone call for me,” he admits softly.

Crixus is not man made of stone.  Pain in feet is killing him, expanding sliver in heart is cracking him in half. 

What can any man say to _that_ , except, “Nasir.  Nasir. _Nasir._ ”


End file.
